Blood, Roses and a Mockingbird's Song
by Thoughts of a Fangirl
Summary: She let him down. They let him down. Everyone let him down. And now Gale must learn to live with the consequences and the pain of Katniss Everdeen's death. But in the darkest of places there comes the promise of light. Of light that might save you. Of songs that might heal you. Of people who might complete you. A Gadge fanfic.
1. Chapter 1

**A.N. We don't own the Hunger Games. We are just trying to find our way through fiction and storytelling.**

* * *

They fought. They fought the battle with gritted teeth and furrowed brows.

They fought with the air of those who were desperate. They fought like wild animals, ready to escape the twisted trap that was the Games. They were ready to fight, ready to gnaw through bone and flesh to escape.

Katniss Everdeen and Gale Hawthorne didn't fight to survive. They fought to win. Because winning was the only way out.

Of course this was Capitol and it was the Hunger Games. And those who wanted to win, who deserved to win, hardly ever did. Odds never mattered, just the game that was played.

So they didn't win. They lost. She had lost. And therefore so did he.

Because they were a team. And if the team loses, then so do you. As the blood spilled from Katniss Everdeen's throat, from the lips that he had wanted to kiss for so long and as the life slowly drained from the face he had come to love, Gale knew this. There was no winning now, only living on.

* * *

Her blood was so bright.

Her eyes were not.

Katniss Everdeen's cannon echoed through the arena.

So Gale waited.

But his cannon never came. And the word victor echoed in his ears. Not that it meant anything to him. Because she had died and he could never go on without her. The woods spoke of her voice through the trees and her arrows splitting the air. Of beautiful, free days and quiet, peaceful nights.

He never did go to her funeral. Katniss had died in his arms and he could never face himself again. Not Prim's sad and tired face, not her mother's empty, bottomless eyes.

All he could do was drown. So he did. He dug a hole of liquor and self-pity. Nightmares rocked him with their dead faces, and he cried because he could never prevent it. The cameras and glitter, mingling with those he detested, with the faces of those he could never understand. The tributes he could never take care of. Who's burden became too great. The terrible nights, where the bottle was his only salvation, dulling the aches the nightmares bought. Faces flashed through his sleep, their eyes too wide and her face was always there.

* * *

And on the clear cool morning when the Mayor's daughter was reaped for the 74th Hunger Games, Gale knew he would never stop losing.

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**A.N. What did you think?**

**Good, bad, ugly?**

**We're excited to see where this goes and can't wait to start this journey with you guys.**

**Ta,**

**Thoughts of a Fangirl**


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N. We don't own the Hunger Games. We are just trying to find our way through fiction and storytelling.**

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It was the crisp, chill of the autumn air that awoke Gale Hawthorne on the morning of the Reaping for the 74th Hunger Games. It had been 2 years. 2 years since his own Games had ended, with him the Victor. He didn't know whether to laugh or to cry, to celebrate or detest the day. So he didn't feel anything and instead pressed on, pushing back the frustration and anger he felt. He swung his legs out of his bed and stared at the rosy glow of dawn filtering through his open window. The street was devoid of life, the white buildings of the Victor's Village in sharp contrast to the coal-covered Square, where the Reaping would be held later today.

Putting on his hunting clothes, he made out the door. He didn't normally risk hunting, but he felt if he didn't get there, to the wide open spaces where sunlight filtered through the leaves and birds sung and bees hummed and all his troubles seemed far away, he would go crazy.

One day couldn't hurt right?

He slipped under the chain-link fence and when he took a breath, it was crisp, and cool and sharp, and it felt like his first breath in a long time.

* * *

Gale had slowly gotten over the urge to vomit every time he passed the spot where Katniss' arrows still hid. He hadn't even been able to make it past the fence for at least a year, until the urge to see the sway of the trees and the rush of the river had grown too strong. Over time he learnt to deal with the pain that accompanied the Woods, with the fact that Katniss was no longer there to hunt with him.

Once, when he had shot a doe single-handedly, he had turned to Katniss to show off his shot, only to find he was talking to a non-existent, long-gone being, a wisp of air. The tears had come that day, unbidden and relentless.

They still came, when the sky was dark and the kids were asleep. Posy, Vick and Rory tiptoed around him now, unsure of the person who looked, walked and talked like their big brother but was somehow … different. His Ma looked at him with sad eyes, the eyes of a mother who couldn't fix her oldest child.

He tried to be the person they wanted him to be, to get back to strong, reliable Gale but whenever he made small talk or tried to play with Posy, it felt unnatural and odd, like his joints were shrinking.

So he was silent. And they were silent. When he was around, anyway. All signs of laughter disappeared when he entered a room; all smiles were wiped off faces.

Gale let it be. They didn't understand. And they never would. Gale was stuck, in a room, in a house, in a life where he was completely alone.

After, checking his snares, he headed back to the house to get ready for the Reaping.

* * *

It was Vick's first Reaping and he looked terrified. Gale wished he could protect him, protect all of them from the Capitol. But if there was one thing The Hunger Games had taught him it was that the Capitol always won. And no one, not even Victors were safe from their cruelty.

The best Gale could do was please the Capitol and hope they didn't pick his siblings. But there was an even higher chance they would now. It made for good press, that the sibling of a former Victor was in the Games. It made the betting and the speculating so much more exciting for those at the Capitol.

And it made Gale sick. The whole thing did. It chilled his bones and made his blood dance with fire. He hated them.

But he was a Victor and the façade was the only thing keeping him alive.

So he wore the mask and sold his soul. He became who they wanted him to be, although every part of him strained towards freedom, towards the real Gale. But as of now, the _real _Gale did not exist. And he had to keep it that way.

In a rare display of affection, he hugged Vick, who was shaking with fright. He whispered what his father had told him, at his first Reaping.

"You know what Pa told me, when it was my first Reaping? He said, you can't ever keep a Hawthorne down, because they'll just bounce right up. So Vick, are you gonna be a brave little boy? Are you gonna be a true Hawthorne?" Gale asked, trying to soothe Vick.

Vick nodded, tearfully, but stood up a little straighter, taking the words of their father to heart.

So as a unit, they made their way to the Reaping, all of them. Together.

* * *

He made his way onto the stage, the bright lights blinding him. Haymitch was already there, slumped over in his chair, shielding his eyes from the light.

"Rough morning?" asked Gale.

"Sweetheart, all of them are rough now."

"Don't call me sweetheart," Gale cried, exasperated.

"Whatever you say, sweet pea," he sneered, laughter lining his voice, and then promptly fell of his chair.

Now, Gale laughed and Haymitch scowled at him. Such was their relationship, a mess of bantering and teasing. But the truth was, Gale was afraid of Haymitch. Not of who he was, but of what he represented. Gale was terrified he'd end up like him, wasted and alone.

At least he understood him slightly, was his best bet of a person who understood the anguish of the Games. Not like they were sleepover buddies, who talked about their feelings. God forbid that day. But Haymitch understood the isolation and the pain and he helped in small ways. Ways that did not include heart-to-hearts or braiding. No, braiding was strictly off-limits.

People started filing in, kids with wide eyes and parents with worried hearts. The mayor sat in his his usual spot, and Effie Trinket exchanged high-pitched false pleasantries, a rainbow of colour with all her garish clothing and _pink _hair?

And so the Reaping began.

* * *

The sun was a bright burning point in the sky, a ball of heat and flame. It burned down, scorching her skin and placing a bright orange haze over everything. It burnt the metal of her bracelet, it burnt the Earth, it burnt her hope and it burnt the spirit of the people around her.

Madge wiped her hands on her dress, her palms tacky with sweat. Her hair felt heavy and wet on the back of her neck, the blonde strands plastered on her skin. She fiddled with her bracelet, an interlocking chain of silver depicting a bird in flight.

Suddenly, the Reaping bowl appeared. The speeches had been as per usual, useless Capitol propaganda. The glass of the bowl glinted in the sun and the slips of paper fluttered slightly, a pool of white. Madge gulped, trying to force the tension down her throat.

Effie, with her ridiculous hair and accent, walked up and dictated the usual: _And May the Odds be Ever in Your Favour._

And then the world slowed, and the moment hovered across the group of people. The world seemed to stop, and time seemed to have acquired weight, a heavy and unrelenting and terrible weight. Colours, fractals of light, smeared across her eyes, dancing across her vision. The world slowed, and her Dad gasped and her heart sped up and her feet moved. Towards the stage.

Towards the Games.

Towards her inevitable doom.

Madge Undersee walked to her death, her blue eyes crackling with fire, and her blonde hair fluttering in the slight breeze, a dance of last, a final salute.

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**A.N. What did you think?**

**Read and review!**

**Ta,**

**Thoughts of a Fangirl**


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